


Toska

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brotherly! FrUK, First Meetings, Inverted Age Gap, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: He was supposed to meet his brother’s (allegedly)‘endearingly obnoxious’boyfriend of two years.He met his supposed ‘soulmate’ instead.





	1. toska

Arthur never wanted to be here.

His half-brother, Francis—the irritating git he was, flaunting the utter French-ness he inherited from his blasted father—grinned wickedly at him from across the table. 

It was nice, he supposed, that his brother, though he was irritating most of the time, had finally found love a year after he’d shipped off to the United States three years before. It wasn’t, perhaps, ‘soulmate’-worthy (their watches hadn’t chimed, and he could see that the other was tracing the glowing letters traced into the skin of his wrist), yet Francis was _happy_ , and Arthur wasn’t about to begrudge his brother that.

Irritating as he was, the Briton supposed that this ‘Alfred F. Jones’ would be at least twice as annoying, from the stories his brother had ultimately regaled him of their escapades. (Shockingly, though, they’d never been sexually intimate during their relationship, even until then, a fact that Arthur had been surprised about. Francis had swatted him for that.)

The main point of the matter was that Arthur never really wanted to be here, but _no_ , of course his Frog of a brother would drag him to meet his boyfriend of two years during one of the scarce weeks he spent over in Jolly Ol’ England to spend time with him.

He scowled fiercely at the clock set on the wall opposite where they sat, watching the hands as they struck six o’clock. 

“You’re quite sure you told that bloody ‘boyfriend’ of yours the right restaurant,” he said flatly, casting a glance at his brother, who was preoccupied with the wine, swirling it around in his glass.

 _”Oui,”_ Francis returned evenly, looking over at him over the rim of his glass. At the scowl on the Briton’s face, he laughed. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, _mon frère_. Alfred is always quite punctual when he wants to be—“ 

It was surprising how fast the Frenchman’s teasing tone shifted into an excited one—with an undertone of warmth and love.

The Briton felt a twinge of jealousy at the expression upon his brother’s features.

How come _he’d_ never experienced falling in love the way Francis always did?

“Hey, guys,” a voice, husky and thickly laced with a distinct American accent caught his attention, and Arthur looked up—

—and his green eyes met with wide, beautiful azure behind golden frames. 

A sharp _click_ sounded.

And Arthur watched as both his and Alfred F. Jones’ ‘soulmate watches’ fell to the table with an evident clatter.


	2. tumingala sa langit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ due to requests, and an untamable urge to continue to write for this AU, I gave in. ]
> 
> He was supposed to meet his boyfriend’s (allegedly) stuck-up younger brother. 
> 
> He met his supposed ‘soulmate’ instead—
> 
> —and watched as he walked away.

Alfred was regretting his impulsive decision.

He _did_ want to be with Francis, sure, that was a big part of why he agreed to accompany him to England, but he wasn’t expecting... 

..well, this awkward as fuck moment when _everybody_ in the whole goddamn restaurant _stared_ at them. Like it was their business that those so-called ‘soulmate watches’ had chimed and fallen off onto the table. 

(One particularly nosy woman had even started jumping up and down and clapping her hands, which Alfred tried to ignore.) 

He looked at his supposed ‘soulmate’— _’Well, fuck, this was really awkward,’_ he thought—his boyfriend’s younger half-brother, Arthur Kirkland. His jaw was locked, as if he was fighting the urge to spout a slew of obscenities (which Alfred himself was privately doing in the confines of his mind, because _Fate, really, what the hell?)_ or simply debating whether he should punch someone—preferably the American, if the murderous look swimming amidst the confusion in his eyes was something to go by.

And those eyes really _were_ something. Francis hadn’t been kidding when he’d said that he and his brother didn’t really look much alike—but _damn,_ those eyes were the greenest ones Alfred had ever seen. 

(Never mind that the eyebrows were totally thicker than normal, but hey, it suited him quite nicely.) 

He stopped that (rather inappropriate, really) line of thought as those eyes fluttered closed, and a shaky exhale passed from the other man’s lips. 

Without another word, his ‘soulmate’ stood from his seat—

—and promptly went directly out of the restaurant without a single glance back.

**[ ]**

“And then he just walked out on me! Really, Mattie, who _does_ that?”

With a sigh, Matthew Jones Williams looked back at his cousin, who was in the middle of another one of his infamous hour-long tirades. Alfred wasn’t even looking up at the stars, he noted, and instead had his head in his hands, fingers threaded through sunny blond locks and tugging intermittently at them in his frustration. 

“Your _‘soulmate’,_ apparently,” he said with a touch of humor in his voice, and the American made some kind of indistinct noise of annoyance.

“Why are you even so worried about that? Didn’t you say that you were happy with Francis, soulmate clocks be damned?”

Matthew sat down next to the older blond, who huffed, running a hand through his hair in his aggravation. He’d been staying with the Canadian for the duration of his stay in England, as he couldn’t exactly room with Francis now that the truth had come out that apparently, said Frenchman’s younger brother was his boyfriend’s ‘soulmate’. 

Cue the awkwardness. 

Francis had been rather accepting of it all, in actuality, yet Alfred had glimpsed the hurt in those eyes when he’d told the American that in the end, despite his _‘frère’s_ annoying ‘Englishness’, family still came first, and that meant that he couldn’t stay with him.

So much for a happy ‘Meet the Family’ thingamajig.

Fate really had a way with letting shit hit the fan and mess up everything he’d ever worked for.

Alfred sighed, taking off his glasses as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I did say that, but.. I don’t know what I should do, Mattie.”

He looked up at the sky, his gaze following the path of a shooting star as it streaked across the expanse of dark blue.

“I really don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ a simple yes or no question: should I make this into a series of drabbles? ]
> 
> Tumingala sa langit. [Filipino]  
> Rough translation: _”Look up at the sky.”_


	3. kintsukuroi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t broken.
> 
> He was simply unloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ and I’m back with another drabble! I’m betting that this will be set in a chronological pattern, really. 
> 
> also, please note that I don’t actually like people hating on a character because of how they’re usually depicted. I humbly ask of you readers not to hate the character himself, but the depiction of him. this is a plea from the author. 
> 
> with that said, here goes nothing. ]

Arthur wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t.

Also, he wasn’t _moping,_ as his roommate had pointed out as soon as he’d stepped into their flat later that evening. (He’d yelled a couple curses at him for that right after.)

Kiku wasn’t a bastard, as Arthur admitted to himself later on, but he _was_ rather blunt when the situation called for it. He was quite tactful under normal circumstances.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those normalities. 

“Get up, Arthur-san,” with a sigh, the Japanese man reached for the cup of lukewarm tea the Briton had been nursing for the past hour. When he didn’t budge, not even the slightest, Kiku frowned, putting his hands on his hips and staring down at the blond man with clear disappointment written all over his face.

“What is it that has you in such a mess?” He questioned, taking a seat beside him. Arthur gradually shifted to make some space for him on the couch, looking down at his blank wrist. The skin there was paler than the area around it, riddled with scars (ugly, hateful scars) and marks from where he’d dug his fingers into it as a habit several times now.

Following his empty stare, the Japanese male put two and two together. 

“Ah, so that’s what it is,” he smiled that shy, reluctant smile, and a hint of a blush dusted his cheeks. “You’ve finally met your soulmate.”

There was a slight nod, yet still Arthur refused to respond. 

“But why do you seem so sad?” When Kiku looked over at him with those concerned, dark eyes, the Briton could almost pretend that they were still together, that they hadn’t broken up over a mutual understanding that what they had was simply not meant to be. 

_Almost._

“Isn’t meeting one’s soulmate presumed to be a joyful occasion?”

At these words, Arthur leaned back against the couch and laughed bitterly. 

“I suppose it could have been,” he replied scornfully, “if my supposed ‘soulmate’ wasn’t my half-brother’s boyfriend.”

There was silence, pulled taut between them as the dark-haired man’s eyes widened in realisation. He placed a hand over his mouth, which had opened in a slight gasp of understanding.

“What do you plan to do?”

It was a simple question, asked so softly that if they hadn’t been sitting close together on the couch, the Briton probably wouldn’t have heard.

“I don’t know.” Arthur said in return, green eyes downcast and filled with so much pain, so much sadness—enough that Kiku reached out to place a hand over his, linking their fingers loosely together.

A reminder of a time they couldn’t come back to.

“Can I take away my brother’s happiness when he deserves it more than I do?” 

It was a simple question, one which had an answer that both of them knew.

“You can’t.” Kiku murmured, and Arthur smiled—pale lips upturned in a forced grin, green eyes dull and glassy with tears.

He smiled, because they knew the answer.

He wasn’t broken, not really.

He was simply meant to be unloved.

Like father, like son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kintsukuroi. [Japanese]  
>  _Literally, “golden repair”._  
>  The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.


	4. pansamantala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew he screwed up when even his best friend could tell that there was something wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ it is the policy of this author to not study for exams despite the fact that she knows she’s fucked up if she does that. ]
> 
> notes:  
> the game _Arcadia_ in this chapter is fictional, and was based on the online game _League of Legends_. also, I’m not too familiar with online games, so if you find a mistake, kindly tell me.  
>  Maria Clara Carriedo dela Cruz is OC! Philippines.

Alfred knew he screwed up.

He was in deep shit, he knew that.

And he definitely didn’t need a screaming voice crackling through the speakers of his laptop while he desperately rammed his fingers against the keyboard, futilely attempting to save his best friend’s character on screen. His efforts were in vain, however, and as soon as the figure dissolved into pixels, his own character was gunned down by the advancing horde of creeps.

 _“Alfred Fitzgerald Jones,”_ ah, yes, there was _that_ voice. That scary-as-all-fucking-Hell voice that she used whenever she was really pissed the fuck off. _“What is wrong with you? You’ve made me die in game_ three _straight times! Not to mention_ your _character’s died at least twice that. Are you really thinking or have all the meat from those burgers you eat replaced your brain?”_

He chewed on said burger for a moment, swallowing thickly, while he watched the revive timer count down. “That’s a low blow, Ria.” He grumbled, fingers poised over the keys and settled firmly atop his gaming mouse as his character was revived. Quickly, he maneuvered his way through the jungle to reclaim the area he’d almost completely decimated in his earlier siege. 

_“I hogged the right to sucker-punch you into reality since I became your best friend,”_ she muttered, and with a quick glance to the screen of his laptop, which was settled to the right of his computer, he could see that she too was frowning on screen. 

_“And keep your eyes on your damn computer screen, idiot!”_

“Is there such a thing as a crime called verbal abuse?” Alfred glanced back to his screen, doing as she demanded of him. (Because really, even though she was still over the pond, still in the US of A, Maria wasn’t someone to be trifled with.)

 _“Probably,”_ she returned, _“but I don’t care about that.”_ Her eyes narrowed. _“There’s a freaking enemy behind your stupid character, Jones!”_

Considering himself warned, he mashed some keys, just in time to allow his character to dodge and ultimately land a hit against the opposing hero. Unfortunately, the maneuver also placed him in the vicinity of the tower, and he was being slowly but surely fired at. He immediately led his character away, cursing under his breath as he saw that his HP was nearing the yellow zone.

Oh, wasn’t his luck great?

 _“Damn it, we’ve been outflanked!”_ Maria wasn’t normally one to curse, but apparently, ever since he’d introduced her to the wonders of the multiplayer online battle arena video game, _Arcadia: Enclave of Heroes_ , she’d been more prone to expressing her ire in verbally creative ways, more often using her native language.

_“Hey, Jones, sorry to disturb your emo trance, but apparently, our shitty teammates in this game can’t even defend the top of the freaking map, so get your depressed butt over there and fight!”_

He groaned. “Ria, seriously?”

Her voice adopted that same frightening tone. _”Unless you want to tell me why you’re being a mopey coward over there in England while I’m not there to whip you into shape, then I suggest that you get. Your. Head. On. Straight. Otherwise I’m definitely spilling everything about the Maple Incident to Matthew. You’ve been warned, Jones.”_

“Yes, My Lady,” he muttered as a parody to that one anime they’d binge-watched a couple of weeks ago. 

_Heroes weren’t supposed to be scared,_ he thought to himself as he grudgingly tapped the keys, moving his gaming mouse as he directed his character towards the top of the map like his best friend had oh-so-lovingly demanded him to do. 

But then again, he _really_ didn’t want Mattie to know who finished off his maple syrup that time he’d visited the States the year before. So if it meant keeping the Filipino woman’s mouth shut, then off he’d go to defend the top. (He much preferred being mid, though.)

**[ ]**

_”So, now that we’ve suffered yet another crushing defeat today thanks to a certain American idiot,”_ Maria sang over the speakers, apparently well ticked off beyond the boundary. (Oh, he was bound for Hell as soon as he flew back to the US, he knew that now.)

_“Mind telling me why you’re being so damn depressed right now?”_

Alfred raised his head from where he’d rested it against the top of his chair, looking at the laptop screen. The Filipina looked concerned, thankfully, though there was still the slight twitch of her lips which indicated that she was still quite sore over the fact they’d lost five games in a row, in a single day. 

“You do know that I’m rather uncomfortable with telling my possibly homicidal best friend, right?” He said flatly.

She rolled her eyes. _“I’m not_ homicidal, _Jones—“_

“Sure you ain’t, dela Cruz,” he interjected, which he promptly regretted as he saw her infamous death glare. 

She cleared her throat. _“I repeat, I, Maria Clara Carriedo dela Cruz, am not homicidal. But I’m still your best friend. I’ve known you for years, you can’t lie to me and you know it, so ‘fess up, Al.”_

He sighed. He knew that, of course, and he knew that he couldn’t get away with anything, especially if Maria was already involved.

He knew he screwed up when even his best friend could tell that there was something wrong.

“I met my soulmate a week ago,” he finally said. He could tell when she’d heard him by the fact that her eyes had widened rather exaggerratedly in return.

 _“Wait, what?_ Seriously? _That’s great, Al.”_ She smiled, apparently lost in her daydreams. _“Who are they? How did you meet? Was it—“_

“He’s _Francis’ younger brother,_ Ria,” he cut her off, looking away from the laptop screen. “Can’t you see? I’m dating his brother, have been for two years and counting, even! Francis and I aren’t a temporary fling, I can’t cast him off just because I found my so-called ‘soulmate’, and this just—“

 _“What’s his name?”_ She asked softly, gently, as if to placate the aggravated American, who had now tangled his fingers into his blond hair. (He still avoided that one wayward strand, however.) 

“Arthur,” he replied, having known the fact from everything Francis had told him. “His name’s Arthur Kirkland.” 

There was a pause, before he heard Maria curse vehemently in her native tongue. Confused, he looked up, only to see that his best friend had turned pale.

“Ria? Maria? What’s wrong?”

 _“You don’t know,”_ she whispered, as if stunned, bordering upon horrified. He furrowed his brow in return. 

“I don’t know _what?”_ He all but demanded, and she shook her head.

 _“Try searching for that name on Google, Al. You’ll see.”_ With that, she seemed to look off-screen, listening for something. _“I have to go; my brother’s calling for me. He probably needs help with placating Lovino again.”_

And with those words, the Skype call ended, leaving Alfred confused. 

He grabbed his laptop, opening the browser in order to do as his best friend said. As soon as he pressed the ‘Enter’ key, hundreds upon hundreds of links appeared on his screen.

He frowned, looking through the images. They fit the mental picture he had of his so-called soulmate, and depicted him in various events, mostly wearing an expensive-looking suit, arm in arm with a dark-haired man around his age.

He clicked the topmost link, waiting for it to load. 

** _Arthur Kirkland_ **

_**Arthur Ignatius Kirkland** (born April 23rd, 1994), is an English businessman, heir to the Kirkland Conglomerate._

He scrolled down, not at all believing it, until—

_It has been confirmed that Kirkland is engaged to Kiku Honda, a Japanese singer-songwriter and businessman, heir to the Hoshinoumi Group of Companies._

He stared at the words, before he let his head fall into his hands.

What had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pansamantala. [Filipino]  
> Rough translation: _”Temporary”_


	5. ab initio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look back at the beginning of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ okay, I’d like to apologize for his very, very short drabble, and for taking such a long time to update. I hope you’ll forgive me. ]

Since the day of his birth, Arthur Ignatius Kirkland, named such in honour of his deceased great-grandfather, the one who started their business empire, was destined for greatness.

He was the prince, soon to become king of a kingdom comprised of skyscrapers reaching towards the heavens, multi-million dollar contracts and deals with other businesses. He was the prince of a world revolving around money and expensive galas, where faces were painted extravagant masks and tongues dripped with poisonously sweet words of flattery in order to get what they wanted. He was the prince of a world where lies, blackmail and bribery comprised the common language, where smiles were faked and eyes betrayed their beholder with untold promises.

Since the day of his birth, he wore a paper crown of money and reputation. His eyes were an acid green of cynicism from a childhood he had never been given, his pale lips set into a scowl unbefitting of his childish features. 

As he grew older, he was told that he was to be the epitome of perfection itself. He was told that unless he fit the standards, he would turn out like _her._ He would become a mistake, worthless in the eyes of those who mattered most.

He was a puppet. A puppet with a heart like ice, a mind honed with dangerous wit, a face painted with an impenetrable mask. 

Arthur Ignatius Kirkland was destined to conquer the business world.

And none were supposed to conquer his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ab Initio. [New Latin]  
>  _From the beginning._


	6. di lang ikaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This _had_ to be a joke. There was no way that this was happening.
> 
> [ and i’m finally back with a double update after nearly two months of not updating this fic. sorry about that. ]

He didn’t _want_ to be here.

But he had to.

Forcing yet another smile and a cheery wave of goodbye as yet another overly privileged young lady sashayed away with another flirty giggle and a kiss sent his way, Alfred played with the neck of the flute of champagne he’d been holding for the past twenty minutes or so. (He couldn’t be sure; it felt like it had been hours whereas in truth it probably had been only less than half an hour.) 

He didn’t want to do this, but it was expected of him to attend, as the only son and heir to the up-and-coming company, Magical Strike, led by his father, Benjamin Jones. He didn’t want to, but really, did he even _have_ a choice?

...Yeah, he really didn’t.

It was why he was here, now, stuck in some fancy gala held in honor of some partnership his father was trying to secure with some bigshot company here in Europe. This was also part of the reason why he tagged along when Francis had asked him to come with him to England, but it was only about 0.0001% of that decision, really. He’d only wanted an excuse to jet off with his loving boyfriend, maybe meet Francis’ family—and, somewhat bitterly, he shoved that thought away. Yeah, look how great _that_ turned out: he had a ‘soul mate’ pushed onto him and his boyfriend was now distant, apparently trying to fix whatever damage Alfred had done on the already burning bridges between the half-brothers.

It was _such_ a great trip so far, wasn’t it?

(He could practically taste the sarcasm in his own thoughts, and for one who was frequently told to be oblivious to nuances, that was already a big achievement.)

Alfred leaned against the table which was set behind him, watching the way the other people at the gala seemed to drift from group to group, never staying long but always creating connections, luring gullible personages deeper into their own respective webs until there was nothing of worth left on their person, in their many-faced personalities, or in their bank accounts. He lifted the flute of champagne up to his lips, taking a brief sip as his gaze roamed around the room.

It was then that he nearly choked on the alcoholic beverage, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. 

It couldn’t be..

This _had_ to be one big joke. There was no way that this was happening. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him.

Because Arthur Ignatius Kirkland, heir to one of the most powerful and influential European business empires and his apparent _‘soul mate’_ was walking towards him without any intention of stopping nor veering towards any other direction any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Di lang ikaw. [Filipino]  
> Rough translation: _”It’s not just you.”_


	7. la douleur exquise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He knew that she was but a caged bird who sang for the freedom she once had, for the happiness she sought but could never have._

_She was there by his side when he needed her most._

_She was there, her hands guiding his as his fingers danced over the keys of the piano. It was in harmony with their singing, voices melding into a singularly beautiful melody—mother and son, together in their happiness, in the simple fragility of this moment between them. She would laugh when his fingers tripped over the black and white keys, hitting them incorrectly; she would laugh when he would miss the cue for him to step on the pedals. She would smile, then, and her lips would part, her voice spilling forth in a quiet yet loving caress as she reached out to vainly attempt to fix his hair._

__“Mon Dieu,” _Álice Kirkland (neé Meyer) would say with a gentle laugh behind a fair hand, “have patience,_ mon chéri, _the piano is not your enemy. It is your friend, your compatriot—treat it with care, Arthur. You cannot bring forth lovely music with such heavy hands and a harsh command.”_

_He would nod, and it was then that her gaze would drift away from him, cast off into the distance._

_And he knew that she longed for_ them, _for her other family, for her other half and the son she was forced to abandon when she had been caught and dragged back, against her will, to this mansion. He knew that she was but a caged bird who sang for the freedom she once had, for the happiness she sought but could never have._

_The Kirkland mansion was beautiful, yes, and so were its occupants—everything and everyone there were fair in every physical aspect. Yet they were all prisoners there, all the same, and the house that they built their own prison._

_Arthur was but one of them, and his mother another. It was she who had fallen from grace, she who fell and loved her destined one, her soul mate, who did not deserve her in the eyes of his grandparents. They were the ones who shunned the union, and the fruit it bore—his half-brother, Francis, who was declared a bastard, an illegitimate child when he was merely three years old. They were the ones who forced her into a loveless, sham of a marriage to his father, William Kirkland, all for the sake of their business empire—thus effectively entrapping two innocents in their own agonising prison._

_She was there by his side when he needed her most—_

_But he knew that there was someplace else she would rather be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La douleur exquise. [French]  
>  _The pain of wanting someone you can’t have._

**Author's Note:**

> [ Because I wanted to write a soulmate AU. ]
> 
> Title meaning:
> 
> Toska. [Russian]
> 
>  _“...It is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness.”_ —Vladimir Nabokov


End file.
